Wintermass
by HedgeNinja
Summary: M!Hawke/Varric fluff with a touch of bittersweet; and cookies. Set very early Act II, in the 'If We Have Unearned Luck' series.


"Get them a round Corff; it'll help keep the noise down. And I suppose we should send someone for the healer, if anyone's willing to come out on a night like this."

"Now Hawke" Varric commented mildly reprovingly from his domain in the corner, watching the miserable group that limped in through the Hanged Man's doorway. Two of them for whom, between the groans, consciousness was working hard to already be under the table slung between three, only in slightly better shape.

"When unfriendly individuals attack you in the street the acceptable course of action is to stick them full of holes. Dragging them somewhere of ill repute to drag the process out with poison, now that's just unkind." Responding to the glare directed at him from the barkeep by draining his tankard in salute and signaling to Norah for a brace of refills.

"It might have been the kinder option" Hawke agreed, joining him to sprawl into a vacant seat. "But they seemed so terribly confused. I mean, there was no springing intimidatingly out of the gloom from above with threats of 'your money of your liver'; but there was a lot of falling off roofs with high pitched screams, and cries of 'Oh Maker my leg please don't hurt me'. I figured they could use some pointers on proper thug etiquette, and it's Maker's Eve, the season of giving; or something."

"Well we're overflowing on etiquette here, so they're at the right place. Or overflowing on something anyway, judging by the smell."

"I'm surprised they actually managed to follow me here; maybe they've got potential after all, although that leg looks kind of nasty. I guess they didn't know about the traps on the Hanged Man's roof."

"First tip then: 'clambering around on rooftops on a freezing night thick enough to eat with a spoon not recommended'? Speaking of which" as the conversation relocated to the suite "not that I'm complaining, but I seem to recall someone bemoaning that they'd been dragged into helping tonight with preparations for- "

There was a faintly sheepish tint to Hawke's expression, despite his efforts to feign nonchalance behind his mug.

"How long did you get kicked out for?" Only the details were a question.

"After midnight" Hawke said mournfully. "Even _Yak_ got to stay."

"So now we know who's better at stealing food from the kitchens. Or maybe just at pleading for clemency when they're caught." Earning him a Look that would have done the mabari proud.

"I was _not_ a 'thieving magpie'" Hawke stated; the picture of wounded innocence. Varric wasn't buying it. "I was undertaking Quality Control. It's the first Maker's Day at the estate and she _said_ she wanted everything just right; you'd think she'd be pleased that someone pointed these things out. And they _were_ slightly burnt."

Varric rubbed the bridge of his nose, shaking his head at the bag Hawke deposited on the table, from which emanated the aroma of baked goods.

"You do realise that anyone else asked to take on the contract of stealing from any owner of a newly-acquired kitchen, let alone your mother, would be demanding hazard pay and settling their affairs beforehand? And now you're asking me to help in hiding stolen goods that are probably hotter than even I like to handle?"

"Oh they cooled down on the way over" Hawke replied, helpfully. "So I was more hoping that you might be able to help with getting rid of the evidence." Tossing one of the offending items to Varric. He would have called it 'heat-kissed' or some such, but then a large part of his life involved being flexible with the truth.

-o-o-o-

"And it's not easy pulling off this sort of heist solo without crew you can trust. The twins were always good for a distraction but since Carver- " The bitterness that filled Hawke's mouth was from more than just the burnt edges of the biscuits. This year his efforts couldn't hide the fact that their sudden rise in fortune since arriving in Kirkwall had merely landed them in an estate that felt too large, too empty; poor compensation.

"No word from Junior then?"

"Oh, we got lots of words; official shiny Templar letter. I suppose it's from him; his name at the bottom of the page. Blah blah duty, blah blah commitment, blah blah leave not granted. He probably jumped at whatever the Order get up to during the season of peace, love, tolerance, whatever; must be a slow time for them.

"Family. Can't not have them around at all those gatherings meant to bring people together, and usually it just feels like you've created a target rich environment."

"Oh it's not just us then. I had wondered." Considering what he and Carver had said to each other that day it was probably safest not to have them in the same room under enforced politeness. Something would probably explode, and that had only happened when Bethany had been involved in sibling disputes. Not that either the presence or the absence scenario made things any easier for their mother.

"On the other hand it could just be the weather to blame." Reaching for a convenient change of topic. "Mother told us once that these nights remind her of when she and Father used to meet, feeling like there was a Templar listening and waiting on every corner. The night they ran away you still couldn't see a foot in front of your face; it was just in a storm that felt like it was trying to take the place down around their ears. Father wrote her messages in the rain with lightening; so many that she was afraid even the Templars couldn't miss it and they'd be caught." He grinned. "Neither of them would ever tell us what they said though."

-o-o-o-

If Hawke didn't talk much about his father Varric was fairly sure which side the majority of the penchant for chaos came from. That being said, a memorable conversation a few months back had awoken him to the fact that underestimating Lady Leandra was…unwise. And given rise to some occasional wondering about whether there was anything behind Hawke's quip concerning poisons and cake. Still Varric surprised himself with the words that came out of his mouth next.

"Ilsa liked these nights. Still, quiet, close; the warmer ones in winter. For her it was a little like being back under stone; she could feel it around her, hear it whisper." His mouth twisted as reality bit deep; the memories clawing at the box he generally kept them shoved in. The illusionary haze of selective recall had never held them.

"Those were the nights she felt safe enough she didn't drink…as much. Little enough that sometimes she'd tell us stories, sing…I got most of my early tales from her; the best ones anyway."

"You don't tell that many dwarven stories" Hawke commented after a moment.

Varric shrugged. "Change the names to suit the audience; the true tales will stay true no matter about the flourishes. Just the oldest stories, the ones that can't be told any other way." Memory flicked over another page. "Some nights, not often; more, towards the end, she'd…dance. Stalata rikud."*

Hawke raised an eyebrow in enquiry at the unfamiliar term.

"Stone dance. It's a…ritual, an offering to the stone; asking for help when you're in deep. Old, old tradition; most surfacers have probably never even heard of it; maybe a few of the kalna families."

_/And certain individuals with a head for delusions half-remembered when things get black enough…/_

"Those nights would seem like the best, for a while; we'd be going home to the Stone, She'd forgive us, take us back to Her. The mornings that came after…well, they were the worst." Varric wondered what in the Fade had opened that book even as he slammed the cover shut in his mind, forcing half a smile. Words, memories, those had power; and that wasn't given away without purpose. Not from him.

"Ah Shades, Sweeps; I'm fairly sure you didn't come over to listen to me getting maudlin over old history."

-o-o-o-

"Well on that subject I think I sort of started it, so…" Hawke would be the first to cheerfully admit ignorance about dwarven religion, tradition or however they named it, beyond the snippets he'd gleaned from Varric. Those were usually couched in comments on the Dwarven Merchants Guild, and the way Varric told that story it was hard to know if it was playing out as a crime epic or a farce. And while he suspected that Varric could, if he chose, forget more about Hawke's life than he could even begin to guess in the other direction at this point in their relationship, he could hear the edge under the unexpected reveal that spoke of things best left unpushed.

He settled for moving to lean on the back of Varric's chair, wrapping his arms around the rogue in a sprawling hug. Reveling in the here and now and the fact that he _could_; after all the ways the world been upended in the past year. Eventually shifting to rest his chin to dig in idly against the top of Varric's head; accepting unrepentantly the grumble and the swat with the nearest manuscript from the collection strewn across the table. Varric chuckled as he reached up to pull him closer, butting his nose lightly against Hawke's before claiming a kiss that gave the lie to his mutterings; and one that Hawke was all too happy to be greedy in returning as Varric's expression lightened.

"To mothers." Varric retrieved both vessels after a long moment, handing over Hawke's.

"To mothers." As he echoed the toast. "And on that, Mother said to remind you that you're expected at dinner tomorrow night; if you don't already have other family commitments."

-o-o-o-

Varric sat silently for a moment, absorbing the implications behind the invitation. Hawke had tossed the offer out casually, but he was watching for Varric's response. Maker's Day was for friends, outings, social gatherings. The night was smaller, quieter; for family and the closest friends.

"Well if your definition of 'family commitments' includes Guild functions where the primary game of the evening is figuring out what level of potential lethality, on both sides, to attach to the use of the word 'contract' in your current conversation; then I'd say I'm fully booked."

And how long had it been since an offer of that sort had come without strings often a very small step away from becoming nooses, attached? Varric was still convinced that he'd rolled the dice of the Maker Himself to draw the luck that had ended him here, after everything.

"This year though I think I'll send cousin Devern, they like him there; doesn't eat all the canapés, lets them win at Diamondback…"

"And doesn't exist…"

"Hey he's the owner of several respectable businesses that pay their dues to the Guild; that's more than enough reality as far as the accountants are concerned. I can think of any number of meetings that would go far smoother if some members only existed on paper…And his generous commitment to family duty leaves me with an enjoyably free schedule to fill."

"Oh good; it didn't seem safe to go home with a 'no' answer. I was afraid I'd have to sweeten the deal." The grin that Hawke shot him was a promise of, and invitation to, mischief.

"Sweeten- you didn't." Eyeing slightly warily the second no less high-trouble, if smaller, culinary package that had just arrived on the table.

"It was a small batch!" Hawke claimed defensively. "Obviously meant for testing. I mean, who just leaves whiskey fudge lying around anyway?"

"I'm trying to decide if you want me there tomorrow as a witness or a bodyguard. Either way, this is a high-end contract you're talking Sweeps. I'm starting to think the Guild's event might be safer after all."

Hawke shrugged. "Makes sense to go to the best then in that case; why trust anyone else at your back? But I suppose if that's what it takes some additional…_upfront_ payment could be negotiated…" The mug summarily discarded, leaving his hands free to provide an opening argument that could prove surprisingly difficult to refute; with words anyway.

"Sounds like it could be a…lengthy negotiation…still, might keep you out of trouble for a bit…"

"Company I keep? Well first time for everything…"

"Otherwise some poor sod's job is going to become a lot…harder tomorrow…"

"And you might just miss out on presen-…cheater…" Eloquence, among other things, was being rapidly evicted from the bargaining table.

Every venture came with strings, but on occasion they turned out not to be tripwires. And Varric had the feeling this would be a very enjoyable tangle.

* * *

_*"Stalata rikud" Horrible blend with apologies of DA dwarvish and Hebrew- from a comment by Tolkien on the origins of his dwarvish._


End file.
